The Maze of the Mind
by BooksAreMyLife
Summary: When Dylan Elizabeth Lloyd arrives at 221B Baker Street, she comes bearing some shocking news. Sherlock Holmes will need her to solve this case, but is there something she's hiding?


I knock hard on the door of 221 Baker Street then step back from it, surveying the rest of the street. There are people walking up and down it, heads bent against the fierce wind, which has a nasty freezing bite to it that distinctly foretells snow.

"Can I help you?" asks a curious voice. I jump and turn back to the door. An elderly lady is standing in the doorway, gazing at me with eyebrows raised in a questioning stare.

"Um, yes," I stammer. "I'm looking –"

"You want to see Sherlock, don't you?" When I give her a questioning look back she laughs. "Almost everyone who comes to my door wants to see Sherlock Holmes, dear. Come in, you must be frozen." She leads me up a flight of stairs to a small door that has a brass letter B on it. She doesn't knock but just opens the door with no further warning than, "A guest for you, boys."

I am pushed into the room and the door is shut behind me so quickly I'm a bit disorientated. There are two men in the room, one sitting in an armchair by the fireplace (which seems to be redundant) with a laptop open on his lap, and the other lying on the sofa with his eyes closed, his face to the ceiling.

"Told you," said the man on the sofa without even opening his eyes. "Pay up."

The man in the armchair grudgingly pulls out a fiver and puts it on the mantle. "I swear you're psychic," he grumbles. "It's the only explanation." He looks at me, his gaze softening slightly. "Sherlock bet me five quid that we'd get a client today," he explained. "We've been on a bit of a plateau with customers so I thought it's be an easy bet to win."

I smile. "Sorry I lost you five pounds."

The man smiles back, holding out his hand for me to shake. "John Watson," he introduces. His handshake is firm and sincere, and he makes eye contact. I decide I like him. "And this is my colleague, Sherlock Holmes." He gestures at the man on the sofa, who hasn't moved or even opened his eyes yet.

"Nice to meet you," I say politely. Sherlock doesn't answer. An uncomfortable silence falls between the three of us.

"Well," said John, I think just to break the ice in the air. "Would you like a cup of tea?" He moves towards the kitchen, but Sherlock stands up and walks over before he can get go two steps.

"I'll do it, you'll just mess up my stuff again. Would you get the milk?" he asks me, gesturing to the fridge while he fills the kettle, despite the fact that he's closer.

I open the fridge and come face-to-face with a severed hand. For a whole second I just stare at the hand. It's a man's hand, the fingers plump and fingernails broken and obviously bitten. I consider slamming the fridge door, but I can feel Sherlock's eyes on me and know it's what he expects me to do. So I just get the milk carton and calmly close the door. I hand the carton to him, my face carefully expressionless.

"Here you go."

He takes it, his eyes staring into mine, unreadable. "Thanks." I smile slightly and walk back to the living room to sit on the vacant armchair. John offers me a tentative smile, as though apologizing for the hand. I nod, my smile becoming warmer. That was obviously a test, and I seemed to have passed.

"Here you go." Sherlock hands John and I a steaming mug of tea each, then sits back down on the sofa with his own. "So to what do we owe the pleasure of your visit, Ms Lloyd?"

"How do you know my name?" I ask sharply. Sherlock nods at my winter coat, draped over the arm of my chair.

"You put your name on the label, Dylan Elizabeth Lloyd. You commonly lose your possessions."

I stare hard at him, trying to work out if he's mocking me. Goddamn his impassive face. "Good observation."

"I also know that you have a rich boyfriend but you're quite poor, you have a ginger cat, and that you like walking in the park."

I have to remind myself not to let my jaw drop. I sit up straighter and shake out my hair, trying to look disdainful. "You gleaned all that from my coat label?"

"Not quite. Your clothes are neat and tidy but quite out of fashion, probably bought from a second hand shop, but not your bracelet." I involuntarily touch my sapphire bracelet and Sherlock smiles. "Expensive, not in your price range I would think. It's too striking to be a gift from a husband or family, it's a man trying to impress you rather than reinforce his love. The cat was easy to deduct, you have orange hair on your lower legs." I immediately check there and see he is correct – a few fine orange cat hairs are stuck to the back of my black tights. "And finally, there is mud on your shoes, which means you've been walking somewhere muddy recently. There's no grass therefore no mud in London except for in the park, and since it's been raining recently nobody would go walking in there unless they either liked it or decided to take a shortcut. The liking fact was just a guess on my part, but a pretty good one I think."

Sherlock sits back, obviously pleased with himself. I smirk. "Right on all accounts, Mr Holmes, except one. I don't have a rich boyfriend anymore. I dumped him two months ago."

"Yet you still wear the bracelet he gave you," says Sherlock quietly. "You're a cold girl, Ms Lloyd. But that's beside the point. You still haven't answered my earlier question. Why are you here?"

I take a sip of tea, collecting my thoughts. The tea is a little too hot and burns my tongue, but otherwise it's perfect. "I've come to help you, Mr Holmes," I say finally.

"Help me?" Sherlock sounds interested. "Why would I need your help?"

"You will soon." I look at him, look him right in the eye. "One of your friends is going to die, and I'm going to help you find the murderer."

**Ooh, cliffhanger in the first chapter! How was that? Worth continuing or should be shoved in the bin? Please review and tell me which!**

**Disclaimer: Sherlock was not my idea. Sherlock Holmes was Sir Doyle's idea. Sherlock was someone else's idea. I just happen to like him.**


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